Shadows of War
Chapter One - Human Error
Pairing : Natasha x f!soldier!reader & Wanda x f!soldier!reader
Warnings : third person POV, a death, gunshot, surveillance/being watched - let me know if I missed any please
Word Count : 3.1k
Summary : The narrow streets of Morocco. A pier. And Y/N - a CIA operative - forced to make split-second decisions to protect an asset and her team. But what if the asset isn’t what they seem?
A/N : This is the first chapter of Shadows of War! I’ve been thinking about this for literally so long and I’m glad I finally put the pen to paper and got this done. If you wanna be added to the tag list, let me know!
Series Log | Masterlist | Next Chapter
Tangier, Morocco - 1986
The map is old and worn, frayed at the edges where it had been folded and unfolded too many times. A smuggled port map - bribed out of a kid’s backpack for a handful of coins and a promise not to ask questions. It’s spread flat against the scarred wooden table in the safe house, corners curling no matter how many times Y/N presses them down.
The room smells faintly of dust and oil. One bare bulb hums overhead.
“So here’s the meeting point,” Y/N says, her finger tapping the pier. The paper shifts beneath the pressure. “Public. Loud. Easy to blend in.”
Troy hums in response, seated back in his chair as he sharpens his knife. The sound is slow, rhythmic. Calm. He leans forward, places his fingers just southwest of the pier entrance. “I can get a clean line of sight from here. Covers the pier and approach.”
“Chloe and I will be here,” Lucas says, already writing, pen scratching softly. A neat C and L appear next to the quay - a wide concrete slab built for loading and unloading ships. “We’ll hold until the asset is confirmed. Once we get eyes, we move to join you and Logan at the pier.”
Y/N nods, uncapping a blue pen. “Logan and I start here.” She draws a line from the edge of the map toward the market. The ink goes thick, then thin, the line wobbling slightly. “We cut through the Medina and head to the pier once we have visual.”
“Rooftop access everywhere,” Logan mutters, around a bite of apple. “Troy’s gonna be having to watch us and the roofs at the same time.”
A quiet D is scribbled into the corner of the market. Damon’s mark. “I’ll shift when you do,” Damon says. “Market first, then east of the pier. I’ll keep eyes on the rooftops from that angle.”
Lucas exhales, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Comms are going to be a problem. These concrete buildings eat signals. We should expect dropouts.”
Chloe bumps her shoulder against his, light, reassuring. “You’re our tech guy. You’ll figure it out.”
His ears turn pink as he smiles, just a little.
Blue ink dominates the map - positions, movement routes, fallback paths. Friendly lines crisscross the paper, overlapping in places, corrected and redrawn.
Damon adds a green X over the marker district with a grease pencil. Civilians. Too many to count.
Black ink crowds the margins: coordinates, angles, notes written smaller and smaller as space runs out. Someone adds a question mark, then crosses it out.
Chloe’s brows knit together. Her finger hovers over the quay, circled in yellow. “Why’s this still yellow?”
Lucas doesn’t hesitate. “Because I don’t have proof yet.” Enemy or civilian. Threat or nothing at all. Unknown.
Y/N reaches for the red pen.
The room goes quieter.
Nobody likes adding red.
“Here’s where things get tricky,” Y/N says, voice steady as she marks blind spots, narrow alleys, shadowed corners where someone could disappear or wait. Red arcs bloom where fields of enemy fire could overlap. Small dots appear where a man could stand and look like he belongs.
They talk it through - angles, timing, what-ifs. Fingers smear ink when someone second-guesses a mark. Y/N wipes one away with her thumb and redraws it sharper.
When they’re done, the map is a mess of color. Lines, arrows, dots, symbols layered over one another. Smudges where mistakes were corrected but never fully erased.
It looks like Troy’s 2 year old got ahold of it.
They stand around it for a moment, quiet.
It’s decent.
But not foolproof.
—
Damon flips open a file. A page slides free, landing on the table.
Youssef El-Amrani, 39. Port logistics clerk. Paid to fix manifests - errors, missing crates, delayed arrivals. Married, two kids. The photos stare back at them: a smiling wife, a daughter with messy hair, a boy clutching a worn toy.
“Study up,” Damon says, voice low, almost clipped. “He’s being controlled like a puppet on a string.” His fingers linger over the pictures, tapping lightly against the page as if the motion would somehow warn them away.
Logan leans in, flipping through the rest of the file. He pauses at the family photos, tracing a line from Youssef’s eyes to the children. His jaw tightens. “And you’re sure he’s locked in?”
Damon nods, grim. “They followed his kid from school once,” he says, letting the words hang. “Made sure he knew it was real before he even realized what he was moving.” He rubs his temple. “Just think about it: you sign off on a boat you don’t even know the contents of…and the next day, a massacre makes the news. You check, see the guns, and know it was on your watch. Filled with guilt, you come to us.”
“The cargo includes assault rifles, ammunition, handguns, and explosives. Most likely hidden in fish crates or mixed with legitimate shipments. That’s why Youssef was warned before the shipment moved.” Y/N adds.
Troy’s eyes linger on the boy in the photo, his grip tightening on the edge of the table. “He’s…he’s the same age as Elijah,” he mutters, voice low. A tight knot forms in his chest.
He closes the file, letting the weight of the pages echo in the quiet room.
Damon clears his throat, “Yeah. That’s what we’re dealing with.”
Lucas exhales sharply, staring at the floor for a moment, then back at Damon. “Jesus.”
—
Smoke bombs line the table beside the map - contingency for if the operation is compromised. Flood the area, use the crowd as cover, disappear into the Medina.
“So if there’s no contact in 15 minutes, we move here?” Logan asks, tapping a finger against the map.
Lucas nods. “Yes, use the alleyways and keep covered. Don’t stop.”
He circles the area once. Then again. A third time. Emergency extraction point.
“And if we take fire,” he adds, capping the pen. “Scatter. Don’t converge.”
—
The room falls quiet. Dawn creeps in through the window, the sun just beginning to lift over the horizon. The coffee sits cold and forgotten.
Everyone drifts inward, the way they always do before a mission.
Weapons are cleaned and loaded with practiced ease. Knives sharpened, then sheathed. Comms checked, discarded, checked again - Lucas never trusting them the first time.
They wear the outfits that sell the story before a word is spoken. Tourists. Newlyweds. Vendors.
Troy stills and bows his head, lips moving without a sound. Instinct. Desperation. Nobody interrupts - no one ever does.
Prepared.
Ready.
Together.
—
The city is bustling with life, traditional outfits blurring past like everyone knows exactly where they’re going. Y/N Y/L/N moves through the chaos like a shadow, her piercing eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
She is forced to act like she doesn’t belong.
“You know,” Logan says with a laugh, as if he’s already told the punchline of a good joke. “This would be a hell of a lot better if we were here for another reason. I mean, look at that view!” His tattooed arms sweep to the glistening Mediterranean.
Y/N glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “We finish what we need to do, then I’ll buy you a drink and we can sit on the pier,” her voice is firm, but with the faintest hint of a smile.
Troy wipes his brow before glaring up at the Moroccan sun. “What would be great is if it wasn’t so damn hot. Hotter than a whore in a church, I tell ya.”
He perches on a roof, hanging clothes on a line. Almost all the roofs double as storage or drying spaces.
Y/N smirks, “Almost as hot as your mom, Troy.”
He barks out a laugh, his country accent thick. “I’m takin’ that as a compliment, boss. I did get my good looks from my mama.”
A scoff is heard over the radio, “Damn right you did.” Damon’s gruff voice rang out.
Damon is in the street, fez wrapped snug around his head, blending seamlessly with the locals. His job is to act like a local market vendor.
“Aw, you called me pretty.” The countryman fires back, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Boys, boys, settle down,” Chloe’s voice chimes, light and airy, sounding rich in the city’s haze of Moroccan Arabic. A language only Damon was fully fluent in.
Lucas chuckles, placing a hand on her hip. “Listen to my fiancée, she’s a smart one.” Chloe leans into him naturally, sealing their cover as a newlywed American couple.
Y/N’s voice cuts through the chatter, sharp and precise. “Keep a look out for the asset.” Her eyes sweep the crowd, scanning every movement.
A cool breeze drifts through the narrow streets, blocked in parts by square, concrete structures.
Y/N pulls her dark brown shemagh up over her face, keeping the dust and sun at bay. Which also makes her unidentifiable at a moments notice. Her pale linen shirt clings to her back with sweat, but she doesn’t let it slow her.
“No visual,” Troy’s voice comes faintly through the comms, cutting out at the edges. Like Lucas warned, buildings often block signals, especially as Logan and Y/N move deeper into the market district.
Logan presses on his earpiece, pretending to fix his own shemagh. “Comms are cutting out, entering the market.”
“Copy,” Damon replies, eyes scanning for the pair.
The vendors shout in their native tongue, offering spices, meats and small trinkets. The air is thick with cumin, grilled meat and coffee. Logan licks his lips in anticipation.
“Sure does smell good,” he murmurs, eyeing the stalls.
Y/N puts a hand on Logan’s shoulder, pushing him towards a stall. “Get something, before you make us stand out,” she says.
He grins, ordering a small kebab while Y/N presses against the side of a building, scanning the cobblestone streets.
Troy is looking through his sniper scope, now hidden behind sheets on a line, watching their every move. She nods to him, then lets her eyes wander over the bustling market.
Dogs and cats scavenge scraps while a snake charmer coaxes a cobra from its basket with a ney flute. Tourists, impressed, throw coins at his feet.
Logan returns with a small bite in his mouth, smiling at her. “This is some good stuff, boss.”
“Way to rub it in,” Lucas huffs into the comms, cutting in and out. “The only thing I smell down here is fish, it fuckin’ reeks.”
Troy laughs, looking over at the pier. Sure enough, Lucas looks as if he’s about to throw up, adjusting his pack to distract himself.
“Get it together,” Chloe says, patting his back.
“Focus,” Y/N reminds them, focused solely on the mission.
—
Salt water sprays lightly across Chloe’s face, but she pays it no mind. Her green eyes keep moving, watching, studying - looking for anything out of place.
There’s a guy that keeps glancing over his shoulder, wearing a navy blue baseball cap pulled low. The logo catches her eye: 1981 World Series Champions - Los Angeles Dodgers.
Two men stand farther down on the quay, voices hushed. She can’t hear what they’re saying over the lapping water, but she doesn’t need to. One of them clenches his hand at his side, jaw tight with anger.
Another man sits alone at a wobbly table, nose buried in a book. Every so often, his eyes lift just enough to peer over the pages.
Not enough to say they’re compromised.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe everything.
Lucas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gulping down the last of his water before walking back with a sigh. “Worst place ever,” he groans.
Chloe doesn’t look at him. Her attention stays on the crowd - the fishermen with their sharp knives, the tourists who linger too long, the timing of boats loading and unloading.
What if I miss something?
The thought always creeps in during missions like this.
Y/N is the one who reassures her. Mistakes happen, she says - and if they do, they handle it together. As a team.
Y/N always has good intentions. Mission first, everything else second. It’s probably what makes her such a good leader.
Six years. Longer than most teams last. They began as Army specialists, then were pulled into joint CIA operations, working under a captain. Now Y/N leads them, boots on the ground, right beside her team.
Something not a lot of people did.
She never acted like she was more than them.
Only a teammate.
Only a friend.
Lucas furrows his brows, following Chloe’s line of sight. “Whatcha see?”
She shrugs, finally looking away. “I don’t know. Might be nothing.”
He bites his lip, then nods. “You know Y/N trusts you, right? We all do. That’s not up for debate.” He pauses. “Which means you should trust yourself.”
Chloe’s vibrant green eyes flick to his dull brown, holding his gaze for a moment.
“If only it were that easy,” she mumbles, her grip tightening on the strap of her backpack.
“Well,” Lucas says, putting a hand on her shoulder, “if shit does go down, we’ve got a backup plan. Courtesy of yours truly.”
She cracks a smile, shoving him away.
—
“We have eyes on the mark.” Troy’s voice rings through the comms, alerting everyone but Y/N and Logan. The streets are crowded, the vendors loud - any signal would get lost in the chaos.
He waits a beat. Then another. When no reply comes through from Y/N or Logan, he sighs.
Lucas planned for this. Of course he did. If comms go down or there’s no way to contact a teammate, they’ll use either visual or auditory signals.
Keeping that in mind, Troy pulls a small mirror from his pocket, angling it toward the sun. He flicks the light toward the market: one flash, just a small glint on cobblestone next to Y/N. Another. And another.
Y/N’s eyes sweep the crowd, alley entrances, and rooftops, trained to catch the smallest movement. A flicker catches her attention from the corner of her eye. Intentional. Steady. Subtle enough that only she notices. It disappears and returns - three times in total.
Move to the rendezvous point.
Logan taps Y/N’s shoulder, motioning to the ground with a nod. “Look—“ but she’s already pulling him along, dragging him through the streets towards the pier.
He nods, throwing a piece of steak from his skewer to a stray dog, before falling in step behind her.
She allows herself a small smile at the gesture.
On the other side of the market, Damon abandons his original location, pushing his cart along the street parallel to the duo. Going towards the east, like planned.
The rendezvous point is simple: a spot visible from Troy’s line of sight, with multiple exit routes, busy enough to blend in, but quiet enough to talk.
The pier is perfect.
—
The asset’s back is turned to the team, gaze fixed on the sea as it laps against itself below the pier.
Seagulls cry overhead, looping endlessly before diving for fish. The brittle crack of bones against metal blades echoes as fishermen work, making Lucas wince every time. Boats anchor, unload, and slip back out to sea in a constant rhythm.
The pier creaks beneath their boots as they approach. Only when they’re close does the asset turn. Y/N and Logan face him directly while Chloe and Lucas keep their attention on the market district behind them.
“It’s very busy today,” he says, nodding toward the vendor-lined streets tucked into the shade.
“Sure is,” Logan replies easily.
Lucas checks the communications again, fingers adjusting the dials. He always does - making sure they’re online when they should be, and troubleshooting when they’re not. Chloe continues to scan the horizon, committing faces and movements to memory.
“You have my side of the deal?” Youssef asks at last.
Y/N nods, extending her hand slightly. Lucas places a vanilla envelope in her palm.
New identities. Passports, drivers licenses, birth certificates.
A way out - for him and his family. A head start before the inevitability of being hunted down by Roman Volkov.
The asset hadn’t wanted protection. Just erasure.
He swallows hard. “He is dangerous.”
Logan snorts quietly beside Y/N. “We know.”
The asset looks away, lips pressed tight before he forces himself to look back. “Very well. As long as you know what you’re getting into. There is no backing out now.”
A fisherman nearby lets out a triumphant whoop as his rod bends under the weight of a large catch. The asset flinches, eyes darting toward the sound.
“It’s okay,” Y/N says calmly, taking him in - the sweat beading at his hairline, the way his eyes keep sweeping the pier like a lighthouse scanning open water. “You can trust us.”
Normal nerves. Everyone has them.
“Here,” he says, voice low. “The pier. It’s a blue trawler - blue hull. Shipments normally come in after dusk.”
“I thought it was at the quay,” Lucas says, fingers pausing on the radio.
The asset nods, fast and repeated. “They changed it.”
Tonight, they’ll intercept the shipment. If they’re lucky, they’ll get the crew responsible for the most valuable weapons exchanges on the coast.
Y/N nods, turning to her team. “Alright. You heard him. Start prepping - but watch your backs. Morocco’s a maze, you know that,”
Lucas nods. Troy’s voice cuts sharply through the comms. “Yeah, and I’m the experimental hamster.”
Lucas keeps scanning - tourists snapping photos, vendors pushing their last sales, children darting between adults at play. But behind the kids, invisible at first glance, are others. A group. Dressed in black. Moving with the shadows instead of against them.
Damon sees the reflection on a rooftop, his eyes narrow. What is that? He wonders.
Chloe studies the asset as the rest of the team prepares to move.
He’s shaking. Nervous. But it’s more than that. The way his eyes keep flickering to rooftops and to the quay. The way his fingers won’t stop twisting his wedding ring.
She opens her mouth to speak.
He beats her to it.
“They’re watching,” he says quietly, like saying it out loud makes it real.
Y/N turns back, confused. “What?”
He looks down, guilt flashing across his features. “They’re watching us.” A beat. “They found out I was talking to you and I don’t know how, but they told me to bring you. I didn’t tell you sooner because they would’ve—“
His body slams against the railing before the crack of the gunshot is heard.
The vanilla envelope is still in Y/N’s hand as blood splashes across it, sealing it shut. The promise of a new beginning suddenly became his contract for death.
Y/N doesn’t flinch.
The blood blossoms beneath his tan shemagh, soaking into the wood of the pier, dark and spreading.
And in that moment, it becomes clear.
They’re compromised.
They’re surrounded.
